MY VIEW/GUEST COLUMN
Remembering Father

Published: June 19, 2004 8:00 PM

My father was born January 1922 on what is still one of the coldest days on record in Winnipeg, Canada. He is nothing special to the world. He didnt belong to any service organization, he rarely attended church nor read the Bible, or much of anything else for that matter. He was a man of few words, yet he taught me profound lessons. And I learned a lot, not by his actions, but rather by those he chose not to take and the words he chose not to say.He survived the Depression and WW II. It was indeed a very different American from which he and others emerged which bred a strength of character and sense of honor, often missing in todays world.A paratrooper with the 82nd, he doesnt talk much about the war. He minimizes any mention of being a hero, saying that those were the guys who didnt return. About his medals he simply states he was in the wrong place at the right time.An event etched in my mind was his response to my naive childhood question, Did you kill anyone in the war, dad? He looked at me with a face I have never seen before nor since, and didnt say a word. I never asked again.And, in what he calls the luck of the draw, he was passed over by triage as he lay injured at Anzio. However, in a very rare second look, he was turned over and someone said, Hey, I think we can save this guy. Im glad they did.Like the other GIs my dad returned from the carnage and was expected to fit right back into civilian life. There was no such stuff as talk therapy, or discovering yourself to help them re-connect. Intense introspection, so common in our times, was probably alien to these men. So they carried the trauma with them and simply carried on.In the early 60s my dad found himself a single parent or two young girls, long before it was a statistical norm. He was 39, with the kind of looks that turned womens heads. I inherited his blue/grey eyes, thick hair, olive skin and crooked middle fingers. My sister had none of these possessions. In our childhood rivalry, I guess I won by default, for I had to tag along everywhere with him, because I was too young to be left alone. So with calloused hands he would grab mine and he took me to his workshop, he took me to his job sites and he took me to the bars.Not much for academics, his skill lay in his hands. He was a carpenter. He taught me the beauty and the feel of the various woods, particularly the value old wood has over the younger, because of the richness of its patina. He reminded me never to go against the grain of wood and to treat people the same way.I learned about tools. He handed me a screwdriver and I felt its weight and balance. It had my dads name carved into the handle. He showed me that though a simple tool, it can be dangerous both to the user and to the wood. If the tip is too narrow it would scar the slot of the screw, if too wide it would scar the surface of the wood. If too rounded, if may slip out, damaging the wood and probably me. Not a very materialistic man, I noticed how well he took care of the few belongings he did have, especially his tools.I noticed, too, that my dad wasnt perfect. He dated a lot, smoked a lot, sometimes drank a lot, and could never resist a good game of poker. When he would lose, wed eat fishsticks. but when he was on a streak, which was frequent, we got to eat out.Pinkies Bar was closed on Sundays, but there was always a game going on in the back room. Clevelands finest would ignore it because a couple of the cops often sat in. I, and a couple of other kids would make a few extra bucks by keeping the bottles of Strohs and Black Label coming to the table. Watching those games taught me something essential about my dad. I noticed that most of the players had a certain behavior, like jiggling a foot or a posture shift, which gave away their cards. For my dad, it was a raised eyebrow. And, after a while, I could just about tell who would probably win the hand. When I told my dad, he said, Dont ever tell me.He said he would rather win by using his own strategies and skills. He said it was like dealing from the bottom of the deck. You may win a little extra money, but you lose so much more.My dad showed this type of integrity in his other dealings as well. He never took advantage of anyone and always paid his own way, never feeling he was entitled to anything he didnt earn. To be any different would make him less of a person. When his business was bankrupt, he insisted on paying all his creditors and suppliers back 100 percent. It took him 12 years to do it. When someone asked him why? He said, It was the right thing to do.Although money was tight and we had to make do with what we had, we never lacked the essential things. However, because of the dearth of local schools at that time, my dad did cut a lot of corners to pay for private education for my sister and me, which is something I will always be grateful for. It if wasnt for that I probably couldnt write this as well, or not at all.My dad still says that all three of us grew up together. I think we held together back then because we relied on each other and still do. For a man who was poorly fathered himself by an emotionally distant and mean-spirited man, I think my dad did a pretty good job. It was the best he knew how, and he did it without any instruction manual or childrearing advice from a sewing circle.Dad is almost totally blind now and has lived with me for quite a while. When I cut his nails and soak his hands, I cant get over how smooth they are. Recently, I had him hold one of his screwdrivers. I watched his face as he traced the familiar name etched in the handle. I asked him if he remembered. He said, Yes, yes, I remember.(Paula Thompson of Cambridge is a registered nurse and a member of The Sunday Jeffersonian board of editorial contributors.)